


ghosts that we knew

by perennial



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology
Genre: F/M, real world AU, with ghosts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-04 13:47:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3070427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perennial/pseuds/perennial
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He oversees a cemetery. She works at her family’s florist shop. When he accidentally hits her with his car and puts her in a coma, her spirit haunts the cemetery grounds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ghosts that we knew

She watches the bereaved trio add a bouquet of sunflowers to the temporary memorial on the side of the shaded road.

“This is your fault,” she reminds the man beside her, who merely grunts.

She looks back down the hill at the trio: two middle-aged women, one plain and one beautiful, and one ugly man who is the husband of the lovely one. They linger a moment in front of the pile of flowers, cards, and mementos, pointing some out to each other, wiping their eyes. Then they pile back into the blue Cadillac (vintage but maintained to perfection) and disappear down the long drive toward the cemetery exit.

“That was sweet of Aunt Hestia, to remember my favorite flower.”

“They have two days before I clear that mess out of here,” he says.

“Don’t you dare,” she shrieks. In some planes of existence the sound would shatter glass or clear birds from their trees, but the stained glass windows of the nearest crypt remain intact and the surrounding foliage is undisturbed by sudden movement. The man, however, winces.

The cemetery is caught up in full summer: lush green grass carpets its hills and valleys; dark green leaves fill the trees; visitors wear linen and cotton and sandals. It is a massive place, as vast in acreage as some of the largest municipal parks, and most of the expanse is the final resting place of local figures from generations past. Far from morbid or macabre, it is rather a place of peace and dignity, and even the most superstitious find their blood pressure lowering upon entry into the shaded walks.

Though the man wears UV-impenetrable sunglasses and has discarded his suit jacket, not a single bead of sweat is visible on the young woman’s brow. It might be mentioned that not much about her is visible at all, especially in such strong sunlight.

He meets her glare with a grimace. “It brings down the aesthetic. No one visits this place to be reminded of actual death. They come to wax nostalgic over the great founders of the city and the ostentatious family plots. Why do you think the modern graves are kept far from the historic ones?”

“I would think this would be the least of all the things you’re eager to do for me. And it’s not _actual death_. Not yet. That memorial allows my loved ones to grieve while its impermanence offers hope. It’s important, can’t you see?”

“Fine. They have until that patch of grass requires mowing.”

She scowls, an unusual expression for her face. “God skimped on compassion when he made you.”

“It was reallocated to business acumen.”

Her frown deepens. “And a fondness for sports cars, not to mention that lead foot.”

“How many apologies do you expect to require before you believe me? I cannot be sorrier about your current state of affairs. I am doing everything I can to rectify the situation. I am paying the hospital bills. Your burial plot will be complimentary, should you require one. Everything else is out of my hands.”

“You still have the murder weapon.”

“The Audi was a gift from my father, and I am not parting with it. Isn’t it enough that I’m not driving it?”

But a new thought is worrying her. “How long will I stay like this, do you think?—if I should require a… burial plot.”

“You won’t stay at all. You’ll move on immediately. What’s keeping you here now is related to what I did, not any action or negligence of yours.”

“Another thing to thank you for.”

“Indeed,” he says, sounding insulted. “Unless you’d rather be trapped in your body, unable to speak or move or see or do anything but listen to your family’s bedside confessions and nurses’ gossip and machines beeping.” He said, as one who knew, “I feel far more pity for your mother at the moment than I do for you.”

His father is dead, she knows. Philip Hades took full control of the family business five years earlier, right after the discovery of his father’s tumor. His two elder brothers had not shown any interest in management, having established companies of their own, and when risky brain surgery had finished off their last hope, all rights were signed over to the youngest son. He had built relationships with local businesses, which was what had brought her family into contact with him, as the non-franchised florist nearest to the cemetery.

She looks around, taking in the surrounding vista. Weatherworn headstones tilt in the sunshine; busy insects dot the air above rosebushes and pools of white daisies.

“What about them? Why haven’t they moved on?”

He follows her gaze to horizontal blurs in the distance. The sun has faded them out, as it has with her, but the ones under the fringes of an ancient pine flicker slightly.

“Still holding on with both hands,” he says grimly, “or there’s a vendetta they’ve left unfinished, or regret is holding them here, or flat denial. Every story is different.”

She looks thoughtful. When the day ends and he leaves to return to his small, expensively furnished townhouse in the city, she is still there, her transparent arms hooked around her knees, her eyes fixed on a point in the distance.

~

Hades walks out of the visitor’s center and pulls down his sunglasses. He shuffles through his key ring, looking for his car key.

Finding it, he looks up and jumps slightly. The faded form of the cemetery’s newest inmate stands in front of him, worry spread across her face. “Follow me,” she says, and marches away.

She leads him a good mile into the grounds. When he finally sees the cause of her distress, he narrows his eyes and says “ _Really?_ ”

“They’re dying!” she cries, true anguish in her voice.

He throws his head back in acquiescence. “I’ll tell the gardeners to water them—”

“And fertilize!”

“And fertilize—”

“And weed! for pity’s sake.”

“And weed. Anything else?”

“I’ll let you know.”

“I have no doubt of it.”

She pauses.

“Have you considered a climate-controlled greenhouse—”

“ _No._ ”

~

“ _Sure, I can get a guy out there tomorrow aft_ —” The phone screen goes black. Hades groans. “Sorry, Lou,” he mutters. “Don’t take that personally.” He heads back toward the visitor’s center to find a charger.

After five minutes of him rifling through the office, Lorraine, coordinator-greeter-secretary extraordinaire, hands him her cell instead, on the condition that he conduct his conversation outside.

“Hi, Lou? Sorry about that. Yeah, I still need that tree cut.”

A cemetery tour bus is idling just inside the park entrance. He watches the tour group board while he talks. A seat near the back of the bus contains one very familiar, very transparent, very unnoticed face. She looks out the window with interest, listening to the driver’s opening remarks.

Hades shakes his head. Leave it to her to want to actually know the history of her new neighbors. He already knows more than he can sometimes stand.

He wraps up his call and heads back inside. For some undefinable reason he feels vaguely pleased. “I don’t know what’s gotten into him,” Lorraine tells the other half of the office staff duo, Melanie, when the latter returns from lunch. “He started whistling half an hour ago. Maybe he’s coming down with something. Where are the disinfectant wipes? I want to clean my phone.”

~

He makes his regular rounds every afternoon after lunch. A car would be faster, but the putter of the golf cart allows him to see things which speed might cause him to miss. He drives along, enjoying the warm breeze, noting points of concern for the gardeners or maintenance workers to follow up on. After about an hour he parks and strolls through a large expanse of grass not cut through by asphalt, stepping carefully around graves. A retaining wall in a family plot has suffered damage from mole excavation, and the direction in which it collapses will determine whether the cemetery or the local surviving family will need to pay for repairs.

He crouches next to it, searching for advanced signs of weakness, and finds none. Then he looks up to find her curious eyes on him.

“Miss Demetrios,” he greets her.

She laughs. “For goodness sake, Philip. Which century are we in? Call me Sara.”

He inclines his head. It occurs to him that her disposition is not the type to retain anger, even towards the man responsible for putting her in a coma, nor at circumstances.

And, indeed—“Frustration is profitless,” she tells him, joining him on his walk. “Unless of course it is the type to instigate change, but I cannot do anything to change my situation.” She must wait to know her fate, and that is the long and short of it. In the meantime, she roams the cemetery.

~

“Stop it,” he tells her.

“Stop what?” She is the picture of innocence.

“Trying to help them into heaven. And don’t say you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

“A little counseling never hurt anyone.”

“Are you a certified counselor?”

“Maybe I am.”

“No, you are not. You have a degree in biology and you're getting a Master’s in botany. Believe me, your family told me all about the bright future that I’ve cut off.”

She says, “You wouldn’t help someone find peace, if you could?”

“I don’t think you understand. The ones who deserve peace have already found it.”

“But maybe that’s why they’re still here, Philip. Maybe they’re being shown extra grace—being given extra time—I don’t know! Maybe they still have a chance,” she pleads.

“And if they don’t?”

“Then they don’t. But my conscience will be clear. At least I tried.”

“The souls here have nothing to do with you.” _Or me._

“How many people can see ghosts, let alone talk to them?” She shakes her head. “I don’t believe in coincidence,” she tells him.

~

He glances to his left with an expression of irritation. Sara jogs beside him, quiet pleasure lighting her face like a low fire.

He slows to a walk, hooking his hands behind his head. “Are you trying to embarrass me?” he pants.

“No, but that’s an unexpected perk.” She stops and throws out her arms in a move that does not quite qualify as a stretch. “I can run without getting tired,” she exults. “I can use my entire body, all the muscles in my strong, healthy body, and run and run like I’ve always wished I—”

She stops abruptly, brought back to reality by his expression at the words _strong, healthy_. Her smile fades and dejection takes its place. He finds himself reaching for her—he, who knows the rules of ghostlife, he who has not asked for nor given comfort since that night in the hospital five years ago. He pulls back quickly, so quickly that she does not even register what he intended to do. She stares into the trees. Mist hangs within their trunks; the morning is cool, and it rained sometime in the night.

She turns to him and gives him a resigned smile. “I guess I’d better enjoy it while I can.”

Later, her figure in the rearview mirror waves to him as he drives away, then blinks out of sight as soon as he passes through the gateway and reenters the greater world. The ghosts cannot leave the confines of the cemetery. Something about the gates repel them; thankfully there is plenty of space within, or else the place would take on the mien of a prison. He is not sure she does not already see it as such.

He suspects the only reason her spirit is here instead of asleep in her body is because the accident happened within the cemetery boundaries. Even now the memory is as sharp as though it happened just a second ago—a jolt of lightning in his veins, the brakes that couldn’t stop fast enough, the awful thud, the crumpled motorbike, his heart in his throat, cut flowers strewn across the path, her blood, her blood everywhere, blood turning his white shirt vivid red, blood that stained his skin, dark blood flowing out from somewhere within her wheat-gold hair, warm blood pooling beneath his knees, unending blood, lifeblood, her blood.

And now she is here, vibrant and cheerful, making the flowers bloom brighter and larger with her mere presence. He regrets the accident, he is sorry for his role in it and for the trauma it is serving her and her family, but a infinitesimal part of him—a part he would not admit to were he facing torture by fire, or the threat of having his innards torn out by birds of prey, or blazing rods driven through his eyes—knows a spark of gladness that she is here, by whatever means.

~

The cemetery doubles as an arboretum; there are twice as many trees as there are graves, which number in high digits of five. Thus, the living inhabitants of the grounds often disturb the remnants of the deceased.

A root from an ancient sycamore is attempting to disinter the wife of the city’s first police chief. The problem is handled with delicacy, a good many signatures, and a great many dollars. What remains of the caskets and skeletons of three graves are carefully removed, the root is re-routed, and everything is replaced.

Hades, Sara, and a handful of locals watch the proceedings. Such happenings are rare in this neighborhood; all the gossips sit on a nearby wall and offer unsought advice, which fall on deaf ears, as the man operating the digger can no more see ghosts than he can see his own brain.

Hades stands with hands in his pockets, ignoring the assembly _in toto_ , his dark sunglasses an invaluable aid in blocking out the sight of them. The last clod of earth is replaced, sod is laid down, and the machinery trundles away, laborers following.

“There we go, Mrs. McCrea,” he says, patting the stone.

“She can’t hear you,” says the ghost of a barrister (who, incidentally, had always wanted to be a trail guide in the westward expansion but, fortunately for all pioneers involved, remained a barrister). “She moved on two centuries ago. _My_ headstone, however, is sinking, and _I’m_ the one who has to look at it.”

“Shut your trap, Mercer,” says a long-dead elephant trainer. “One side’s an inch higher than the other. Don’t listen to him, boss, he’s obnoxious. I was wondering, though, if I could get some of those peach-colored roses planted at my feet?”

“Roses, for _you?_ ” scoffs a debutante. “I asked for roses three years ago! No one else had better get roses before I get mine!” she informs Hades.

Sara says, “You’ve cut yourself.”

She reaches for his arm and makes the discovery he learned as a child: though eyes may see and ears may hear, living flesh may not touch that of spirit.

A thin line of blood is indeed running down his forearm. He twists his arm to find the source. “That must have been when I was stabilizing the stones. Antiseptic and one of those giant band-aids, and I’ll be good as new.” He smiles at her.

The surrounding ghosts are horrified at such blithe negligence.

“Do you want gangrene to set in?”

“Or blood poisoning?”

“Lemon water will do the trick!”

“Witch hazel!”

“Leeches!”

“Begone with you!” he bellows. Not for nothing is he king of the cemetery: they scatter.

Sara shows a dimple. “I’d have suggested spiderweb for gauze, myself.”

“I’d be obliged if you’d collect it for me,” he retorts. “Off Mrs. Amelia Grant’s headstone, if you don’t mind. It will save me a chore.”

“I would,” she sings, “but my hands seem to have stopped working.”

She dances away to check on the lilies growing around the Henderson crypt, but she’s rattled, he can tell. One more severance from the life she knows. One step further away.

~

She ticks off her fingers. “Someone knocked over the birdbath in the Villeneuve plot. Ivy is choking out the heather in the Civil War sector, which everyone is upset with, please resolve. Violets are choking out the grass in the Victorian sector, which everyone is pleased with, don’t touch it. The Freemasons don’t like the new gardener because he seems to consider mowing the grass to be ‘just a job.’ There’s a new pair of geese on the pond in the biodegradable sector; they keep scaring off the living families of the ghosts over there, most of whom have died within the last fifteen years, so everyone is currently arguing over whether or not they _want_ visits from family. Either way, in my opinion the geese ought to be transferred to another pond. I was thinking the one between the two Civil War soldier plots, to keep everyone separate. Not the ghosts, of course, they’re all on first-rate terms. I mean the visitors who consider themselves die-hard historians and have chosen sides against each other and keep threatening to resume the conflict right here and now. Oh, and Mr. and Mrs. Montgomery said to thank you for the wind chimes, they’re lovely.”

He swallows the last of his sandwich and takes a long drink of iced tea. “Status of your body: unchanged. Status of your family: growing demoralized. It’s been two months, which is approximately one month and three weeks longer than the doctors predicted you would be comatose.”

“You don’t have to remind me,” she says. He wonders if she has been counting the days.

“They’re starting a new round of tests tomorrow—all the experts are weighing in now that you’re the uncrackable patient. Everyone wants to be the one to wake you up. Meanwhile, I continue to sign checks to the hospital. You may stay asleep as long as you like; fear not that there will be any cessation of IV drips or heart rate monitors.”

“How did my mother sound?”

“Like your mother.” He stands, brushing grass off his trousers. “I’m off. Have to give a private walking tour.”

She laughs at the look on his face. “What’s their area of interest?”

“Pillars of Society.”

She groans sympathetically. The ghosts, eternally bored, find the greatest amusement in discussion of themselves, and when a tour passes through their territory they latch onto the guide—in this case, Hades, as he is the only one who can see or hear them—and add their own anecdotes to his narrative, insisting he repeat them to the tour audience and throwing tantrums when he refuses. “Does Lavinia know?”

“Not yet. And—” sudden inspiration strikes—“perhaps she won’t find out.” He looks at her.

“Oh, no,” she says.

“Please,” he pleads. “Distract her for an hour, that’s all I ask. Just until we’re out of the 1800’s. Sara, please!”

Later she can hardly say how it happened. Perhaps it was the desperation in his eyes (his very blue eyes, fringed by short black lashes) or maybe it was the way he said her name (she has always liked his voice, low and slightly hoarse). All she knows is that she opened her mouth with the intent to refuse absolutely and without dispute, and instead she said: “Okay.”

“You’re a saint!” he tells her, blowing kisses as he jogs away.

“You owe me a climate-controlled greenhouse for this, Philip,” she calls after him, “ _and_ an orangery.”

~

The gardeners exchange looks but comply. They like their employer, and if he has a few strange penchants, who are they to question him? Everyone knows the cemetery is haunted, but he is the first to ever show a movie to the ghosts. If it keeps the residents amenable, who are they to protest? They drag out the paraphernalia.

The screen is set up at the edge of the pond. A translucent crowd assembles on the basin slope.

“I don’t understand. How does it work?” asks the wife of a German brewer.

A Union soldier explains, “The projector takes a small picture and makes it bigger on the screen.”

“But how did they get the people into the picture? It’s not a play, Sara said.”

A long-dead politician hears this with regret. “We’d have won the presidency with this, Horace,” he tells his long-dead aide, who nods somberly.

Sara finds Hades adjusting the clarity of the projector. “I’ve been wanting to see this one,” she tells him, her excitement palpable. He looks at her shining eyes and wide smile and cannot help smiling in return. “Meet me at the pond’s edge,” she tells him. “I’ve saved us a spot.”

Finally all are present who want to be. He presses play, makes sure those in the back are satisfied with the volume, and joins her. She looks longingly at the bowl of popcorn in his hands.

“Can you smell it?” he says, feeling guilty and stupid and thoughtless.

She shakes her head. “I can imagine.”

It won’t fix anything to throw it out—wasteful, she would call it, and her yearning would turn to outright displeasure—so instead he feeds it to the ducks. She shows him a genuine smile when he rejoins her. He settles back down into the grass at her side, knowing that if this were anywhere else he would be doing everything he could to get her to rest her head on his shoulder, feeling a tightness in his chest at the thought that such a thing may never happen.

The hero appears on the screen. One of the Victorians squeals, “Oh, he’s handsome!” before covering her mouth with her hand. Those around her laugh. The sound immediately changes to exclamations of surprise as the hero barely avoids being turned to ash by a jet of fire spewed from the mouth of a hovering dragon.

“Jump into the water! Can he hear me?” cries the German brewer’s wife. The crowd watches the battle, transfixed, and they all cheer when the dragon falls from the sky.

“Thank you for doing this,” Sara whispers. “You’ve made everyone so happy.”

“My pleasure. Truly.” And if he doesn’t notice how often she glances at him, it is because he is attempting not to look at her or else he will fall to staring.

~

“Your metabolism comes to a screeching halt. That’s what they say.”

“Fine, but not on _the day_.”

“Thirty-two is the end.”

“Eat your godforsaken birthday cake, Philip. For all the effort it took to get that message to Lorraine, I ought to make you eat the entire thing.”

“Fine, but you have to run five miles with me later.”

She grins. “Fine.”

“Sucker.” He polishes off a fourth of his slice in one forkful and his eyes widen. “You’re kidding.”

She is nearly hopping with glee. “Not kidding.”

“But it doesn’t even look like—”

“I know! I was worried one of your brothers would recognize it and tell you before I could see your face. I am telling you, it took me almost a week before Lorraine got the whole picture.”

“Let me get this straight. You got Lorraine to get my mom to make my favorite cake, but disguise it as another cake, then ship it here _from Canada_ , and it’s here in my hands fresh as though she baked it this morning. You’re incredible.”

“To their credit, your mom and Lorraine did the vast majority of the wor—”

She vanishes.

For a moment he thinks he has lost his mind, or gone half-blind somehow, or suddenly lost the ability to see the cemetery inhabitants—and then he realizes:

_They’re starting a new round of tests._

_You won’t stay at all. You’ll move on immediately._

He feels sick and desperate and numb, all at once. And then without remembering exactly how it happened, he is in a car, tearing toward the hospital.

The nurse at the Help Desk is virtually useless. “Now, sir. Please take a moment to calm yourself.”

“Persephone Demetrios. Goes by Sara. _Is she still alive._ ”

“Now, sir. Are you family?”

Hades leans over the counter, ready to throttle the man sitting behind it before remembering that violence will only get him escorted from the premises. The nurse reads the unspoken threat in his face, though, and begins typing rapidly.

“Will you spell that name for me, sir?”

~

He knows where her room is, but he could have followed his nose.

A crowd of family is inside, making a good deal more noise than is usually tolerated in this wing. They have set up a buffet table near the entrance, and plates full of every sort of Greek savory are floating through the packed room. He stands in the doorway, wondering if his only option is to shoot his way through.

At the sight of him they turn hostile.

“If it isn’t Phil Hades,” mutters one of the aunts.

“That murderer,” agrees another, though isn’t the point that he hasn’t killed anyone after all?

Another woman pins him with a gaze like fire and says, “Your assistance and input is no longer necessary, Mr. Hades. We do not ever want to have to see you again. The bills will be forwarded. Please go now.”

He opens his mouth to say they can all go to hell, he isn’t moving until he’s spoken to Sara—but just then a break in the bodies reveals the hospital bed, and pillowed there is her face: wan and white and looking his way.

“Everyone out,” she says, “except him.”

They protest. Not for nothing did she inherit her mother’s fiery gaze, however, and the clan unwillingly trickles out, doubtless to listen at the door for sounds of her cursing the guilty party and his damnable Audi to the deepest pit in Tartarus. He closes the door firmly behind them.

A plate with gyro fixings and spanakopita is set on her bed tray. She pushes it aside and sits up fully. Her body is quite weak and there are dark circles beneath her eyes—oh, how different from the version he was speaking with just an hour ago—but she is _alive_.

They are not yet capable of speech, or maybe it is that there is too much to say. For a moment all they can do is stare.

He reaches out and touches her cheek. She leans into his hand, closing her eyes briefly before raising them to look at him. He lets out a long breath.

“I thought,” he says, and cannot finish.

“I know,” she says. “I’ve been trying to call you. Don’t you ever charge your stupid phone?”

He laughs once—and then he is kissing her fiercely, his arms around her and hers holding him tight, a tiny corner of her mind thanking heaven that the last thing she ate was baklava, a much greater part sure that her heart will burst from happiness and the celebrations will be for nothing after all.

Her family grows impatient and invades again, and explanations are demanded and some are given, but their joined hands say more than words can, and the worst of the battle is seen through by this stronghold, their warm, living bodies linked with their two pulses beating against each other, declaring that life is waiting for them—outside, or right here. Every story is different, sings their drumming blood. What will be theirs?


End file.
